Three Americans in a Picanto

One sweltering day in August, when my patience was at its stickiest, I received an email from a discount tour guide. He was offering personalized legacy trips through England, helping Americans reconnect with their forgotten aristocratic heritages.

Having always sensed my innate nobility, I was sure the trip would deliver a fascinating reveal.

(It was promised in the advertisement.)

I phoned two friends, proposing we flee our oppressive environment to seek our oppressive roots.

I was not alone in my enthusiasm.

Both friends suspected they were distantly royal. It was worth checking out.

After calling a financial associate to propose a credit limit increase, three tickets were obtained, and we commenced our journey.

Arriving at LaGuardia’s international terminal, we purchased cappuccinos to blend in with the jet set, then checked in. I am wistful now, looking back, knowing it was the last we would ever see of our luggage.

Onboard the plane, we folded into our seats and hibernated. It worked. We awoke in London. A trying hour passed as we waited for our bags. They had been sent to Lisbon.

Giving up, we entered the home country and caught our shuttle to Destiny.

Destiny was the young woman behind the counter at an off-brand car rental firm where we had a reservation.

My homecoming celebration was not warmly received. She declined to take a photo with me.

Hurrying through the paperwork, she threw us some keys and pointed us to the appropriate corner of the lot.

We arrived at the designated location and found what appeared to be a child’s toy parked there. It was called a Picanto.

We examined the car in silent dread. No move was made to climb inside.

Did a supposedly respectable rental agency expect three standard Americans to squeeze into such a minute space?

I returned to the desk.

Destiny expected us to squeeze. Or walk. I was provided with very clear options.

I returned to the toy.

Providence smiled upon us that day, when our luggage was lost. Even a single suitcase would have been too much. Forcing ourselves inside, we merged into a single, three-headed, deeply displeased American.

In the fullness of time, our vehicle attained escape velocity. We entered the London free-for-all, letting our phone direct us to a pub, where we were to meet our guide.

He was loitering outside when we arrived.

My companions took one look and screamed, “Drive on!”

There were reasonable grounds for concern.

The man looked intimately familiar with the British criminal justice system. Nor did he appear reluctant to express himself, judging by the shape of his nose.

But I had paid money.

I would take the chance.

Fortunately, he was only slightly larger than a carry-on bag, so he wedged nicely into a corner of the back seat, adding a new head to our beast.

“The name’s Monty,” our new companion said.

He paused to take us in.

“Now, if I’m not mistaken, you three gents must be some of our long-lost blue bloods.”

Blushing, I confessed I was.

My friends revealed their Hanoverian suspicions, pleased to have been sniffed out.

Monty seemed impressed.

Soon we were off, fleeing the city while Monty regaled us with the fascinating tale of Richard the Ninth fighting Arthur at Stonehenge. (I’d never known.)

Our path followed the river Hynd. We paused now and again to shoot selfies with scenic backgrounds to make our trip appear enjoyable.

Our first destination was Pymplehurst, former home of a cadet branch of the Fenwick family. A Grade II listed property, the hall was completed in 1633 and promptly stolen by The Hon. Emmanuel Fenwick.

Though I lack supporting documentation, I’m confident we are related.

At last, I was in my family seat.

Overcome by pride, I raced to the gift shop.

I bought a coat of arms and a book on the hall’s history. I read that noted landscape designer Capability Brown had once surveyed the property before hauling off the nicer bits for use in other projects.

(He is not revered by us Fenwicks of Pymplehurst.)

We gathered in the entrance for a tour.

The guide asked if we had any questions before he began. It was a perfect opportunity to introduce myself.

“Has another Fenwick ever visited the hall?” I inquired.

“No, sir. No one other than the actual Fenwicks.”

I bristled.

“I’m an actual Fenwick, you know.”

I held up the coat of arms I had purchased at the gift shop as proof.

“That was indelicate of me,” he replied.

Nothing more. No remorse.

We were midway through the tour when a loud argument erupted outside. I recognized Monty’s voice. I glanced out the window to see him engaged in a tug-of-war with an enraged, older volunteer.

It would seem Monty had collected a forbidden souvenir from the garden.

He’d been caught cherub-handed.

This was no longer the homecoming of my dreams. I no longer wished to be recognized as a Fenwick. Family reunions were sure to be awkward. My companions and I slunk away.

We exited the manor, squeezed ourselves into the car, and shouted for Monty.

He bolted in our direction, healthily outpacing his eighty-year-old pursuer, then vaulted onto the roof of our slowly accelerating vehicle.

(Thank God he dropped the metal baby.)

We drove a mile in silence, then stopped to hold a vigorous debate. Monty was ultimately permitted to reenter the vehicle.

Before driving any further, I paused to clarify my goals for the tour. I expressed disappointment at having to abandon my ancestral home to avoid arrest, family tradition or not.

Monty was visibly contrite.

“All I can offer you, beyond my apologies, is this,” he said.

He handed me a letter he produced from his pocket.

I stared at the crumpled paper in shock. Monty had submitted my name to Burke’s Peerage. He had discovered I was in line to become Duke of Aberdeenshire. I was wholly unprepared for such greatness.

All was forgiven.

We proceeded on our way.

We lunched in the charming riparian hamlet of Pymples-on-Hynd. Our delightful meal was cut short when Monty was caught with stolen bread rolls in his pockets.

The proprietor ejected us, unleashing a loud tirade. Townsfolk gathered.

I shrank.

The shame Monty was bringing to my family name was intolerable. I warned him that I would consider reducing his tip if his antisocial behavior continued.

Exhausted, we retired to our hotel, asking Monty to return in an hour to take us shopping for clothes and sundries, since our luggage had taken the grand tour. He assured us he would handle everything himself, taking our money and disappearing into the night, promising a delightful morning surprise.

Monty’s words thrilled me. Had his research borne fruit? Perhaps I was an actual duke.

In the morning, Monty showed up carrying what appeared to be Elizabethan costumes. He expected us to wear them.

In public.

I did not want to put on the codpiece.

Only Monty’s hangdog expression compelled me to submit to the humiliation.

(I did not want to be the ugly American.)

The car had gotten smaller overnight. Or perhaps it was the added ruffles. We no longer fit. Monty had to stick his head partially out the window to squeeze in.

Our merry band then made pilgrimage to Chatsworth, where we became a public spectacle.

Hounded outside by the attention, we strolled the gardens.

I received nearly ten pounds from tourists who wished to take photos with me.

(No doubt word had gotten out: more than one duke prowled the grounds that day.)

Finding a bench, I sat in a dignified pose, aware I was now a public figure. Perhaps I had an estate like Chatsworth and didn’t even know it.

I pictured myself addressing Parliament.

I saw myself in robes. I saw myself in a formal procession. I saw Monty relieving himself on the hedges.

It was time to go.

We fled to the car ahead of an enraged mob.

Monty’s irredentism was becoming a problem. My patience was fraying. I told him that I found the pacing of our tour uneven and questioned his professionalism.

He replied with a cruel personal judgment.

Americans don’t say the word he used. We know it. We just don’t say it.

It was sure to be mentioned in my Yelp review.

After the morning’s exertions, we needed some quiet, so we traveled to a national heritage site where we could be alone.

There, Monty outlined our itinerary: we would spend the afternoon at a village fair.

I expressed my desire to change clothes first, but Monty insisted it was better to remain formally dressed.

“A member of a certain royal family—I won’t name names—was supposed to judge the best meat pie contest, but the palace sent their regrets at the last moment. Imagine how thrilled the contestants will be when Lord Fenwick shows up instead.”

“Lord Fenwick?” I asked hopefully.

Monty nodded.

“It’s been confirmed,” he said.

I knew it.

“But I look ridiculous,” I protested.

He shook his head and patted down my ruffles.

“No, you look noble.”

I reluctantly agreed to go, following a 3-1 vote.

“Let’s walk,” Monty suggested. “It’s only a short distance.”

Cars honked their horns at us as we plodded along the roadside. It felt like mockery, not safety. I still had doubts when we reached the fair. We entered to considerable laughter.

No one was in the judging area, so Monty suggested that we take charge. We could smell the entries. They were in a tent, sealed off by yellow tape.

Monty nudged me toward it.

“I don’t think we should go in there,” I said. “The sign says employees only. What if we’re caught?”

“Nobody suspects an Elizabethan,” Monty assured me.

His logic was unassailable.

It took us three trips to fetch the contest entries. When we returned with the third load, Monty was gone. So were the meat pies we had previously carried.

Others noticed.

A crowd of angry pie people swarmed the tent. I saw no reserve. This was not the trip to England I had envisioned.

Shouts were raised in the distance. The entire day’s gate proceeds had been stolen.

(A search would later reveal that our tiny rental car had also vanished, but it was no great loss.)

The crowd prevented us from leaving until the civil authorities arrived and invited us to their station.

There, my friends and I received deluxe individual treatment. I didn’t see them for hours.

Our interrogations ultimately revealed us to be uninteresting. It was suggested that we head home, and we readily agreed.

Before leaving the station, I was handed one recovered item: the Fenwick coat of arms.

Monty had left it behind, with an attached note.

“Pleasure meeting you. If you would like to see your estate in Aberdeenshire, contact me. I’ll take 20% off the standard price. -Montmorency.”

He glued on a picture.

Of Balmoral.

We were taken directly to the airport. No allowance was made for our dignity.

I withered as I strolled Heathrow in period dress, like Sir Walter Raleigh embarking for the New World.

I will never forget the stares.

Once on the flight, I peered into the darkness for hours. I began to suspect Monty had not submitted my name to Burke’s.

Touching down at LaGuardia, I was gifted an extended visit with U.S. Customs. The agents scanned my ruffles thoroughly. Deemed harmless, I was sent on my way.

I wandered outside.

A wailing child ran to its mother.

While I waited to hail a cab, a man stepped in front of me. He looked like a Brooks Brothers advertisement. One glance revealed all.

Ivy League. Investment banker. The American aristocracy.

When a taxi approached, I elbowed the man in the ribs and climbed inside ahead of him.

It was good to be home.